I take a big drink of my milk, a bite of my spam (what’s left of it) and a small sip of my tea before answering. “There isn’t much to tell, really. I know I don’t look like it now, but I used to work in a hair salon in NYC.” Unsurprisingly, this detail seems to surprise. Intrigue. Of course it would. Dressed as I have been, you wouldn’t think of me as a hairstylist. Not even if I had the tools of my trade with me. I been a veritable shell of myself. A ghost of the person I was before that day. That horrible news. “It was a really good job. Got paid really great money. Had a lot of fun doing it. Especially since I went to a hair design college — a really famous one — in the area there, and was at the top of my class and my game.”
“So what happened?” Unlike most guys I’ve told about my job before coming to live in Albuquerque, he actually looks genuinely interested. Not just feeding me a line so that I think and feel appreciated, when he’s actually just bored out of his mind. “How did you end up here in Albuquerque? New York and Albuquerque can’t be more different from each other!”
I smile at this. “I know. I ended up in Albuquerque because of my mom. She used to live here. She would be alone at the home while dad was deployed, so after a year or two in NYC after college and working at an awesome salon, I decided to do the right thing and move back home. For mom. So she had company when dad wasn’t there. Also so that she had extra protection, in case somebody decided to get weird on her. Some people don’t like the military, you know? No matter how well you’ve served them, or what branch, some people don’t care. So I moved to Albuquerque and got a job at a local hair salon.” I clear my throat, finishing off the last bites of my bread and spam. “That was awesome. I made friends with the owner. She said I was one of her best workers. Indispensable. Smart. Bubbly. Brought her a lot of business, too. A lot of people in Albuquerque liked that New York style you know? And I helped them have that, even if they did live in the Big Apple.” I smile widely, thinking about this. How many men and women left my styling chair happy and full of new life. Full of a new personality because of my work on them. As I think about this, part of me really wants this back. Wants that feeling of being on purpose. Of having that sense of higher calling, even if it is to styling hair.
It’s not just styling hair, though. It’s giving people a fresh start. A new identity. A new way of being in the world, really. And it’s at this moment that I realize how long it’s been since I’ve actually done something that had that much of an effect. That much value. “Anyway, mom didn’t end up staying in Albuquerque, though. She got bored when dad wasn’t home. Stressed more than anything, so she went and got herself a job. Something to do besides sit at home and worry about whether he was getting shot up or blown up. So she moved to Denver for that new job. Something in computer science or whatever. Not really sure, but either way she left me in Albuquerque. So then it was just me in the house, going to work.” I pick up my milk and have another deep drink. I don’t care when some of it dribbles down my chin and on to my chest. On to my breasts. And I really don’t care that he’s looking. Tracing each drop of milk down and over my nipples. “But then I got bored of even a job. So I quit. I closed up, and that was just around the time I got the news that my dad was killed in action. I enjoyed doing hair in NYC, I felt like I wanted some higher calling still. I felt like I wanted to quit, but then I lost my dad. And then of that mattered. And now I’m here.” I take another swig of my milk, and then a small sip of my tea. Both are lukewarm, or getting that way.
As I set both of my drinks down, one after the other, I notice him looking at me. The warmth and intensity in his eyes is enough to spark my interest in him. A hunger for him, even though I’ve just stuffed my belly with his good home cooking.
As my eyes land on Brandon I notice him fidgeting. Not much, but enough to know that he must be feeling the same way. Still turned on. Not surprising, since I’m topless, and since he didn’t necessarily get to finish earlier. It was just me. “I’m so glad to hear that you’ve been trying to make the best of a bad situation. I think that’s admirable, Juliet. There are a lot of people who just give up on having a direction in life. It sounds to me like you still have a passion for hairstyling.” Sexily, he brushes his hand through his crewcut hair. “Maybe I’ll let you work your magic on me one of these days. When this gets a little unruly.”
“Sure,” I say, feeling my heart beginning to pound. Even over the smell of spam, eggs and toast, I can smell Brandon. His musk. His sweat. His deodorant, though it’s faint. “I’d love to have you work your magic on me now though,” I whisper, not able to believe what I’m saying. “I’m beginning to feel a little tense and anxious again. I might need you to relax me.”
As those words come out of my mouth, I’m suddenly on top of the table, and reaching for him. Plates and cups fly off the table under Brandon’s movements. Neither he nor I pay any mind as some of these break, and as foodstuffs make it onto the floor and some of the cabinets. All he cares about is splaying me out on the table, and taking down my sweatpants. Which he does, in short order.
The moment he does, I am delightfully chilly. I’m already goopy and wet, and I let him see it. I let him see the slime I know is clinging to my mound. My lips, all for him. In a flash of movement, he’s got his shirt off again. He’s above me, and I’m in the perfect position to admire his tattoos. His ink. Which even has more color and sparkle in the morning light. In the warmer colors of day.
In another blur of movement, he’s got his pants down around his knees, but not completely off. It doesn’t matter though, as it’s enough room to set his cock free. However big I thought it was last night, it’s even more massive looking this morning. Even more muscled and chiseled -looking. Shiny. Curvy. Delicious. And already at full length.
“I love sausage for breakfast,” I murmur, reaching down to open up my folds. My lips, to give him better access. “It goes great with my pancakes.”
Brandon hums pleasantly. Hungrily, dipping his finger in me. “Looks like you’ve got some syrup ready to go,” he whispers. “I’ll be glad to dip my sausage in it.”
With that, that’s exactly what Brandon does. He penetrates me quickly, earnestly. He’s not one of those men who hesitates. Plays much around my hole. He just goes for it, whole hog. And that’s what I enjoy the most. Feeling the way he just pushes and plows his way through my lips and into my hole. Again, I’m almost breathless by the feeling of his girth. His length, and the way that it stretches and molds my pussy. Pushes her out and beyond her comfort zone. Though it’s already a lot larger than most, since I love to fist.
But his cock is almost better than my fist for how thick and smooth it is. This is the case, even as he begins to move in and out of me. Unlike before, it’s a quicker pace. It’s energetic. Sweet, like he really is just dipping sausage in syrup. And, as dorky as this might sound, that’s exactly what I start envisioning. That I’m a cup of syrup overflowing on him every time he goes in. Every time he goes out, I imagine that I cling to him. Stick to him.
This visualization deepens as he squeezes my ass. Slaps it a little. And that’s when I imagine that I’m the one dipping the sausage in the syrup. Sucking it off the length of it, twirling my tongue around it and dipping it again.
In the next second, I feel his thumbs and fingers on my clit, rubbing and buzzing the skin there. As he does, I hear myself murmur incoherently. Babble almost, and that’s because I’m even more tender than I was earlier. Even more sensitive than he when he was giving me oral. As he rubs me quickly into a small, tight orgasm, I reach for the butter.
Taking a glob of it, I smear it on my nipples. Rub it into my boobs. I then go for the jam, and put a dollop of it on each tender, hard tip. “Eat me all up,” I say, locking eye contact with him. “After taking such good care of me last night, you deserve a good breakfast too.”
“How can I say no after you’ve made yourself so available for me,” he says, dipping down immediately to suck and lick the butter and jam off me. He su
cks on my nipples hard, as if there will be much more than just butter and jam for him. He flicks and caresses my breasts with his tongue as well, lapping up each smear of butter. Each fleck of jam, until I’m all clean. But in doing that, he’s started fucking me harder. Faster.
And I love it.
“Bavarian pastries are my favorite breakfast item,” I whisper, sighing over the pleasant aching and bruised feeling I have in my stomach from him, “fill me with your cream, and I’d be glad to give you a taste.”
Brandon gives a sighing moan at this. It’s almost a shuddering thing. But far from slowing down, it only speeds him up. Eggs him on. “I’ll have some whipped up for you in a jiffy, my lady,” he growls. “Just a minute…” He gasps. Trembles, and I feel him twitch in me. “Just a…” He trembles again, pushing harder and faster in and out of me. “Oh, shit!” His breath slams out of him. Catches. “Here it comes!” On those words, I feel something spill out of him and in to me. Hot. Warm. Thin, but also thick. Gooey. As it continues to spill forward, I feel him pumping in me. Thrusting. Twitching violently. And the pumping that’s going on in his dick is mirrored in the rest of his body.
Brandon groans with each twitch and thrust.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity of quick, sweaty motion, Brandon pulls free of me. Climbs off the table, and pulls me with him. Though I’m not ready to get up. I could stay on the table forever as far as I’m concerned.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Should’ve had more control than that.” He can’t look me in the eye directly. “I can run you a bath, run into town and get some spermicide if you…”
I slide off the table, enjoying the “slide” of Brandon’s cum bubbling out of me. “I’m fine. It’s fine.” I yawn, stretching in just such a way so that he can enjoy how erect my nipples still are. “I didn’t get much sleep last night, so I think I’m gonna get a bit more while I can. While I’m feeling so relaxed, now that you’ve worked your magic on me.” I wink at him, padding toward the bedroom again.
“Whatever you’d like, you can do,” he answers, pulling of his underwear and pants. “I’m gonna go chop some wood, I think.” He puts back on his shirt, letting me enjoy another look at his stomach. His chest. “I didn’t get to finish chopping or carrying anything in last night.”
I nod, heading toward the bedroom.
He doesn’t say anything as I walk inside and close the door behind me.
While I’m pretty sure his desire to “chop wood” is probably just a ruse to keep himself away from jumping me again, my tiredness is real. It’s hit me like a ton of bricks, and before I can even make it all the way onto my bed, I’m asleep.
No night terrors, though. Just a sweet endless dream of Brandon and me on the breakfast table fucking. And then me following him outside, where he chops wood in the nude.
Chapter 18
Brandon
Damn! I really must’ve over done it! God, damn! Compared to yesterday, chopping wood is hell. It’s really damn hard. Every time lift up the axe to bring it down on a piece of wood, my arms seizes up. Even when I bring my good arm onto the handle to help swing, it still puckers. Spasms, and threatens to weaken my grip.
Which it does, making me drop the axe almost as soon as I succeeded in burying its head into a piece of kindling. I can’t even bring it down and through all the way without the tool wobbling and falling to the ground. Handle first, thankfully, but it’s maddening. Irritating.
A chopping job — one that should only take me an hour, two hours at most — has now taken at least double that. Maybe longer, considering I have to stop and rest after each pair of logs I chop.
While my arm does act up from time to time — feels sore and numb — it’s never felt like this. It’s never felt like it’s got lightning bolts ricocheting through it. Ripping up and down through the veins. But there it is scorching under my skin like lava. Like my nerves are left on top of an open flame.
The pinching and aching that’s going up and down my arm and into my hands and fingers is so bad I’m not even sure how I’ve gotten through as much of the chopping as I have. But it’s still not enough. It’s still not everything I wanted to get through. The pile of “to chop” hasn’t gotten small enough for my liking. Especially for this time of year, when I should be lighting and stoking fires to keep myself and Juliet warm.
Although, I guess there are other ways to keep warm. Other ways I’ve been doing a lot of to get my arm so bent out of shape, I muse, thinking about how many times Juliet and I have had sex today alone. Especially that last romp on the tabletop after breakfast. That must be where I fucked my arm up. I did grab her and maneuver her around. Or maybe it was keeping her suspended on my dick the night before. Even so, I need to take it easy. I need to not get a lame arm tonight. How else am I gonna get anything done? One-handed is gonna be a hard way to have to cook and clean later. Briefly, my mind wanders to the possibility of having sex with her again. Of hoisting her over me. How fun it would be to fuck her up against one of the walls, but I still need two functioning arms for that. And right now, my bad one can barely do a chore, let alone give anyone pleasure.
Whatever. I guess I deserve this. Especially after taking so much advantage of her and the situation over the last 24 hours, maybe I deserve to get a little gimped up?
I sigh, beginning to think that maybe that’s for the best. Juliet should be resting more than fucking anyway, no matter how much it’s done to improve her mood or mental state.
Just then, though, I see her there. Juliet, standing there beside me. Beside the chopping block. She suddenly there, as if she really is an ethereal being, not of flesh and blood.
She’s in a pair of sweatpants and T-shirt. Fully clothed from the last time I saw her, but that doesn’t remain the same for long.
Soon after showing up at my side, Juliet strips out of her sweatshirt and down to her bra. Her sweatpants and shoes she keeps on. Tossing his shirt to the ground next to the chopping stump, she picks up the axe and finishes splitting up the log I started.
She gets there that piece of wood, and chops to another before glancing at me. When she does, it’s with unbridled mischievousness. But it’s only a glance, and then she’s back to chopping more wood. Tossing the chopped blocks into a pile. She does all of this effortlessly.
I rub my arm sympathetically. Absentmindedly. “A guy could get used to having a woman around,” I muse.
Juliet smiles at me, bringing the acts down through a particularly stubborn piece of kindling. “Oh? Is that so?” She pauses, tossing the recently-cut wood in the pile, and grabbing for another full piece.
“Yeah,” I say, mesmerized by her muscled and sleek arms. The way her bra accentuates her strength and her femininity at the same time. “Especially when they’re good for so many things.”
She smiles at me, the little devil. “What for, exactly? Chopping wood?” The way she emphasizes that word includes my meat stick along with the logs, and I like it.
I laugh, deciding to let her see how much I enjoy her feistiness. Her lack of a filter. “I suppose so.” I point her, as she goes to shop another piece of wood. Amazingly, the pile is actually getting smaller now with her help. “I’m gonna make you pay for that later, you know.”
“Oh, I know.” Another piece of wood splits, falls apart like butter. She winks at me, taking extra time to slide the axe head down the length of another piece of wood, before slicing into it. “I look forward to it,” she says and sticks her tongue out at me.
Chapter 19
Brandon
Walking back to the house after Juliet’s helped me with all the what I was hoping to chop while she was napping, I decide to talk with her about possibilities. Other ways we could come by her healing, if she’s open to it. “You know, I do some work for charity started by my friend who is a veteran for other veterans. I speak at conferences. Tell my story of serving in the Navy and coming home to battle the demons in my mind and soul afterward. While it’s hard to relive som
e of it, it really has helped me put it in perspective. Put my trauma to some use. Some healing.” I pause, helping her through a particularly brambled patch of nearby forest. We didn’t go that far from the cabin to do the chopping, but it’s still a little wilder out here. “Trauma and PTSD are the same thing. Pretty similar for everybody, no matter what incident causes it. Maybe if you came with me — traveled with me and got to experience other people’s stories and their roads to recovery — maybe you would get some headway in your own trauma. In your own pain. Much more than just staying here with me and trying to avoid what may be ‘out there’ and waiting for you off the mountain.”
Hold Onto Me_A Secret Baby Romance Page 8
